


Not Another Refuge Fic

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Refuge, Whump, so much, so much hurt comfort guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: Spot and Race both get arrested.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 13
Kudos: 90





	Not Another Refuge Fic

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty angsty, so heed the tags.  
> It's also 3 am, so if I forgot to mention any warnings, let me know

No one arrests the King of Brooklyn. He’s an indestructible force, one even the bulls know to keep their filthy hands off of. And if they try, they’ll get a soaking of the century, courtesy of his own two fists.

That was one of the first things Spot had told Race when they met, arms crossed in front of him and chest puffed out. Race had just laughed, unperturbed by the five foot nothing ball of petty spite in front of him, which earned him a kick to the gut. Spot also told him that day that no one laughs at the King of Brooklyn, but Race barely let him finish before he was swinging a punch back, catching Spot in the cheekbone. He’d raised his fists again, ready to continue the fight, but Spot had just fixed him with a calculating look and said, “I like you. Higgins, was it?” To which Race had answered, “What’s it to you?” The silence that had followed was thick with something, tension and apprehension, if Race remembers correctly. It lasted probably a minute, sixty whole seconds of Spot sizing Race up and Race trying not to squirm under his scrutinizing gaze before Spot scoffed, “Brooklyn tonight. Poker. 8 o’clock. Be there.” And with that, he was gone.

Now, the irony of that proclamation sits with a bitter taste in Race’s mouth as he rolls over for the fourth- fifth?- fourth time that night to shake Spot out of a nightmare. The bitter cycle of anxiety had started the moment Snyder had cornered them in an alleyway, sputtering something or other about breaking curfew and shoving them into the back of his notorious carriage to be shipped off to The Refuge. It was bullshit is what it was. There was no damn curfew. But stocks weren’t doing their best at the moment and Snyder was probably casting every excuse he could muster to arrest kids. More children in the bunks equates to more cash in the Spider’s pocket. Race tries not to dissect that notion too much. He doesn’t like to think of himself in relation to a cost- a trade in for money. Degradation is already doled out plenty by society, he doesn’t need to pin it on himself.

But Race couldn’t voice any of these- in the scheme of things, futile- thoughts to Spot, because the moment Snyder had cornered them in that alleyway, he’d shut down. 

It wasn’t until two years after that initial conversation, wherein the two of them had grown basically inseparable (much to the surprise of Jack and every other newsie between Manhattan and Brooklyn), that Spot told Race the truth. How when he was seven years old, freshly orphaned on the streets with his little sister, Sophia, Snyder had caught him stealing an apple from a stand. It had taken all of Race’s willpower not to break down as Spot recounted those awful months- weeks passing of beatings taken for his sister and the utter hopelessness he’d felt when she’d gotten sick and wasted away and not being able to feel anything but numb relief when some older kid came to break him and a bunch of others out. Race had never seen Spot so nakedly broken as he’d confessed this to him, head bowed and shaking hand clasped in Race’s. 

Except for now.

“Spot, hey, wake up, buddy, there we go,” Race keeps his voice hushed and soothing as he runs a hand through Spot’s sweaty hair, easing him out of the most recent nightmare that’s assaulted him that night. He’s genuinely surprised that Spot’s been able to fall back asleep after each one, but they’re draining he supposes. It makes sense in a twisted sort of way.

Spot freezes as he wakes up, subconsciously holding his breath as his eyes dart around. Race can feel him shaking and he rubs a bit at his temples in a way he hopes is comforting. When Spot’s gaze lands on him, he visibly relaxes, breath rushing out of him before picking up in speed.

Race bites his lip, steeling himself for the impending task of Calm Spot Down that’s been pretty much constant for the week they’ve been there. If he’s being honest, Race is fucking spent and he hasn’t really slept, because if he sleeps, then Spot suffers in silence because there’s no way in hell he’ll wake Race up if he’s freaking out. And more than anything, Race wants to cry. For himself, for Spot, for their fucked up situation. But he doesn’t. Because no matter how shitty he feels, Spot feels worse. And he can’t put that on him. Especially when Spot’s imparted this much sheer trust into him. From the moment he’d told him about his first stint in The Refuge, Race knew that he’d been chosen for something special- that he was worth just as much in Spot’s book as Spot was in his. This was only confirmed the night of his sixteenth birthday when Spot had pulled him upstairs after poker and pressed him back against the door, kissing him slowly and sweetly. It was wrong and so illegal, but Race was so far gone, he didn’t care. They’d hide it, hell, Spot is a brick fucking wall when it comes to secrets. As long as they knew, though, Race was content. 

So, he takes a measured breath and shifts closer to Spot, moving his hand from the top of Spot’s head to the back of his neck, helping him into a sitting position and squeezing just a little pressure into the knotted muscles around his collarbones to ground him. If anything’s come from this week, it’s Race newfound skill in calming Spot down quickly. Well, quickly considering his first episode had lasted for the better part of an hour. 

Spot slumps against him, letting out a choked sob that’s cut off by his still too-harsh breaths. Race hums, shushing him.

“It’s alright, you’re safe,” He whispers, painfully aware of the other kids in the room, some of which are undoubtedly awake as well, “I’ve gotcha, just breathe.” 

He forces himself to take deliberate breaths, knowing Spot will grasp onto that and match it. Sure enough, not two minutes later, Spot’s breathing has evened out. _New record_ , Race thinks bitterly.

“Race?” Spot asks, voice muffled by Race’s shoulder.

“Yeah?” Race answers, running a hand subconsciously up and down Spot’s back.

“Nothin’. Just- nothin’.”

“Okay, pal, just relax.”

“Race?”

“Still here,” Race says, sensing Spot’s need for assurance.

“Okay,” Spot says, taking a deeper breath than Race has heard all night, “Okay, yeah, just making sure.”

“Wanna lie back down?” Race offers, “We don’t hafta go back to sleep if you don’t wanna, but we can at least get more comfortable, yeah?”

Spot nods and Race positions them against the shitty excuse for a pillow, holding him securely against his chest. They lie like that for what could be hours before Spot drifts back off to sleep, this time, for good. 

XXX

“Which one of you little _fucks_ left the sink in the downstairs bathroom dirty!?” 

It takes everything in Race’s willpower not to jump at Snyder’s voice. He hadn’t even heard the bastard coming. 

It’s midday and most of them are lounging around on the bunks, having just finished their first bout of cleaning for the day. But apparently, relaxation is relative and although only one of them is going to pay for the mistake, no one can really vedge when someone’s taking a beating down the hall. 

Race casts a glance towards Spot, intending to check in, because Snyder showing up unexpectedly is never kind to him, but when he sees his pale face, he curses internally. Cleaning the downstairs bathroom had been Spot’s duty. Fuck, Spot was going to get the shit beat out of him, unless-

“I did, sir.” It wasn’t even a decision he had to give much thought to, but Race still feels weirdly detached from his body as he stands. He sees Spot shaking his head out of the corner of his eye, mouth open to protest, but he continues, hoping to cut him off, “I left it dirty. I’m sorry, sir, it was a mistake.” Admittance to a wrongdoing is futile, but maybe it’ll equate to forty belt whips instead of fifty. Wishful thinking, but whatever.

Snyder sneers at him, beady eyes glinting a little in amusement as he looks from Race to Spot. He can definitely see through the ploy, but apparently it’s too much work to make a scene, because he shrugs, “Very well. If you insist,” He stalks towards Race, grabbing him bodily by his bicep, “Off we trot.”

Race casts one last glance back towards Spot, only to find him staring at the ground, eyes wide and vacant and not at all present. He tries not to feel upset by his lack of reaction. He’d volunteered after all.

The beating itself feels simultaneously fast and unbearably prolonged, and Race tries to dissociate as much as possible while it’s happening. It’s fruitless, though, because by the twentieth rap of the belt whip on his back, he’s howling in pain, eyes shedding tears involuntarily as he loses control and begins to beg. He sounds pathetic to his own ears, a blubbering mess of “pleases” and “stops” and “I’m sorry, I’ll be betters”, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He must black out from the pain, because after an indiscernible amount of time, he comes to alone on the floor of Snyder’s office. His shirt is back on his body, and he can feel the fabric clinging to where blood is seeping from the belt-wounds. A ginger touch to the face tells him he somehow got a black eye and there’s a gash on his head that’s still bleeding and he’s glad he doesn’t know the cause of those two injuries. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. 

He slumps back down onto the floor and lets himself cry until he almost vomits, then hauls himself to his feet and limps back towards the bunk room. Unable to face the looks on the kids’ faces, Race keeps his eyes lowered as he enters the room, but he’s barely two steps in the door when Spot is by his side, fussing.

“Oh, god, Race, fuck. I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. It was supposed to be me, god your face- oh my god, your back, lemme see is it bad? Lemme take a look-” He makes to pull up Race’s shirt, but he swats him away.

“I’m fine,” Race snaps, “Leave it.” 

“God,” Spot says again, “I’m so sorry, I-” He cuts off with a choked noise and Race feels his shoulders slump in resignation as Spot begins to sob, “Fuck, I’m sorry, I- shit, you look so bad, you look like-” 

And he shouldn’t give in. He shouldn’t. Race should insist that Spot pull it the fuck together and help him for once, because god knows he just got the shit beat out of him and it was Spot’s own fault in the first-

 _No_. Race tells himself vehemently. _It isn’t Spot’s fault. You volunteered. Don’t put this on him. You volunteered, because he’s worse off. Help him. He needs you right now._

And ignoring the thoughts of, _but I need him_ , Race turns to Spot and pulls him into his embrace, murmuring soothing nothings into his hair.

XXX

It’s three more days before help comes. Three more days where Race doesn’t sleep, because Spot can’t stay asleep (and now there’s the added fear of his own nightmares). Three more days where it’s a sun-up to sun-down cycle of Keep Spot in Check. Three more days in the practice of suppressing emotions before Jack and Hotshot show up like savior angels and break them out via window and rope. 

It’s a blur from there and the four of them are running away from The Refuge, not stopping until they’re well into Manhattan by the Brooklyn Bridge. Jack and Hotshot are asking them questions, most of which Race answers mechanically like, “Yes, I’m okay, I’ll heal quick.” and “No, Spot don’t got no injuries, but he’s gonna need ya to be there for him tonight, Hotshot.” and finally, “Sorry, Spottie, I think I wanna just crash at my own place tonight.” And before he knows it, Race is walking back through the Lodging House door, feeling more tired than he’s ever been in his life.

“Aye, Race, ya want something to eat?” Jack’s got his concerned face on and Race can tell he’s trying to coax more of a reaction out of him than he’s given so far, but he really, really, can’t find the energy to do anything other than shake his head. It’s early in the evening, but all Race can think about right now is going the fuck to sleep.

“That’s alright, Jackie, I’ll grab something in the morning before sellin’.” 

Jack gapes, “You can’t surely think you’re gonna sell tomorrow, do ya?”

Race snarls, “I’m sellin’. I can’t stay cooped up nowhere no more.” And with that he stalks upstairs.

XXX

Selling proves to be a bad idea. 

Race is fine, mostly. Well, physically, at least. Most of his injuries ended up not being so bad once he cleaned them properly and he’s still sore as hell and stinging all over, but he’s functional. But he must not have gotten as good of a night’s sleep as he’d thought, because he’s jumpy as hell all day.

It’s too loud out and he can’t possibly focus with all the fucking crowds. Has New York always been this crowded? Surely it has, but it’s never felt this suffocating and oh god, is that man in the bowler hat Snyder? It looks like Snyder, oh god it’s- 

Not Snyder. That’s some old ass geezer, fuck. He needs to fucking calm down. Deep breath and focus and-

Fuckin’ hell why do babies cry so loud? God, that wailing sounds just like those five year olds in the bunks and-

Ow, who just bumped into him? People need to watch where they’re- 

Is someone calling his name? It sounds like someone’s-

Someone’s right behind him, someone’s-

A hand grasps Race’s arm and he jumps about a foot in the air, yelping.

“Christ, Racer, calm down. S’just me!”

Race turns around to see Albert standing about a foot away, hands held up in a defensive pose. He looks spooked and Race realizes belatedly that he’s shaking, heart still going a mile a minute and fuck, now his chest feels tight and-

“Race? You okay?”

-and crap, he hasn’t said anything back to Albert yet and he knows he looks like a nutcase and-

“Yeah,” he chokes out, “Uh, m’gonna take a bathroom break.”

With that, he flees back to the Lodging House.

XXX

The next day, Race doesn’t sell.

He plays sick and elects to stay burrowed under his blankets all day where it’s safe, only emerging to eat a couple bites of an apple to please Jack.

XXX

It’s another couple days before Race has his first nightmare.

He wakes up, gasping as memories of Snyder’s whip fade to nothing and finds Albert kneeling by his bed looking worried. Once his vision has cleared, he notices Jack hovering anxiously in the doorway, but all he can do is slump forward, head dropping to his hands as he tries to breathe through the memory. 

Albert and Jack stay the whole time.

XXX

The morning after his nightmare, Jack tells Race to stay home again and that he’ll sell extra for him that day.

Race can’t find it in himself to protest. Or really respond at all.

XXX

“I’m worried about you, Race.”

It’s been a week and a half since he’s been home and Race is honestly surprised it’s taken Jack this long to corner him. Doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. He just wants to go to fucking sleep. Couldn’t Jack have confronted him earlier? When he wasn’t about to turn in for the night? He’s brushing his teeth for chrissakes. 

“I know you haven’t been sleepin’ and I hear ya breathin’ scared in the night and-”

“Can it, Jack,” Race says, rinsing and spitting, “I’m fine.”

He shoulders past Jack before the older boy can answer.

XXX

Spot visits two days after his not-quite conversation with Jack. It’s still early in the day and most of the boys are out selling. Race, however, has not left his bunk since last night. It’s comfortable there. Safe. A barrier between him and the dangers of the streets and the noise and the risk of Snyder and-

“Well, don’t just hover, come in.” Race knows he sounds unkind, but he’s found empathy to be hard to muster as of late. He wonders if he used it all up in The Refuge. 

“Hey,” Spot says, shuffling in and standing next to Race’s bunk. He looks like he’s slept about as well as Race, which is to say, he looks fucking exhausted, but he’s got his paper sack slung around his shoulder, so he’s at least somewhat functional. 

_Must be nice_ , Race thinks bitterly.

Race just stares at him. He’s angry and tired and scared and nothing makes sense and he doesn’t want to talk to Spot, because Spot _wasn’t there_ -

But he was. He would have been if Race had asked. He would have sucked in a breath and wiped away his tears and slid back on that stoic mask of his, but who knows when it would have come back off?

“Haven’t seen ya around Brooklyn lately.” Spot says. He shifts, then looks at Race sincerely, “I miss you.”

And for some reason, that does it. 

Race _loses it._ Sobs wrack his body, making the still-healing belt wounds throb. He’s shaking, he can’t breathe and-

-And Spot’s there. Holding him.

“I know, shh shh, I know,” Spot’s saying, “I could see ya hurtin’, I knew. God, I’m sorry, I could see it, but I just couldn’t get outta my head, but ya needed me and- god, I shoulda just-”

And Race needs to stop him.

“No, Spot,” He hiccups, “I chose ta- I hadta be strong for- you were so scared-”

“I was,” Spot says, sitting him up and pulling his back against his chest, hooking his chin over his shoulder, “I was scared, but you’re scared now. You’re hurting, hm? I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you in there, that was shitty of me, but I’m here now. I’m here, I promise. I’ll help ya get better, Race, that’s a promise.”

“I-I don’t blame ya,” Race needs to reassure him, “I know ya couldn’t control how ya reacted in there, I’m not mad, but Spot it hurts so bad,” he curls in on himself, the strength of his tears suffocating him, “It hurts so bad, I’m hurting so, so bad. I’m so fucking scared. I can’t sleep and if I do, I-I see...I _feel_ and-”

“Hey, hey, shh. Breathe,” Spot instructs, holding Race tighter and rubbing a hand up and down his arm, “Jus’ breathe. I’ll listen to whatcha wanna tell me when you’re calmer, but you’re gonna make yourself sick there, pal.” He presses a kiss to Race’s shoulder, “Deep breaths.”

Race nods, closing his eyes and focusing on the feel of Spot’s arms around him. It’s almost jarring how the tables have turned so wholly since just two weeks earlier, but Race finds himself relaxing slowly, feeling safer in Spot’s embrace than he has for what feels like forever.

It could be minutes. It could be hours. But eventually, Spot must deem him calm enough to be able to listen, because he starts to speak, calm and firm in his ear.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’m sorry that I made you feel like you couldn’t hurt around me. But I swear to you this goes both ways. You helped me in The Refuge. I don’t think I would have survived without you there. And for that, I thank you more than I can say,” He pauses to press another kiss to his neck this time, “But now it’s my turn. You looked after me, let me look after you. Okay?”

Race whimpers a little, shifting impossibly closer to Spot.

“Okay, Race?” Spot urges, “Gimme something, love. Will you let me help you? I’ve got you now, we’re safe.”

And it’s that last sentence that seems to drain the rest of the fight out of Race because he nods, “Okay.”

“Thank you.” A pause, “I love you, you know that, right?”

“I know. I love you, too.”

And shit is still fucked up. Hell, Race is going to hurt for a long time, he knows it. But he won’t be fighting alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, chiefs


End file.
